Ignotus Tempus
by mrsProbie
Summary: A young Muggle woman, a fanfiction writer in fact, finds herself "waking up" in dreams during the time of the Founders- but is there more to what's happening than she realizes?


**A/N: Ho my gorsh.**

–

_At heart, I am a storyteller. I tell- rather, write- stories to entertain and to enlighten, but also to escape. I create new interactions so that I may not feel like a failure when I have to think about the ones in reality._ I hated writing in that journal sometimes; it felt stuffy, pretentious even. _As long as I have a backup, what does it matter?_And yet, as much as I hated the practice of writing in the damned thing, it did lead me to certain truths.

I was a fanfiction writer, that was all. I couldn't even write original fiction- I felt myself a failure, and so I made up for it the best I could: by being the best failure around. I forced myself to write, even when I didn't feel up to it- I'd write for competitions, I'd write for challenges, and I'd write based on prompts given to me by friends and internet strangers alike. All I could hope for was that quantity would at some point, by the power of sheer volume and the practice therein, amount to quality.

Beginning to shut the journal, I had a second thought and, on a whim, scribbled a final line at the end of my writing. _I have been writing; I have not been writing as I'd wish._ And so, with that in mind, I went to bed with a heavy heart. Not even the usual hot shower and glass of cool water could help to soothe my mind, and it seemed to take hours for me to fall asleep.

–

When I awoke, I was... elsewhere. The world had taken on the appearance of some sort of oil painting (quickly fading into a normal view) and the odor of something unrecognizable and rather disgusting (unfortunately intensifying rather than fading). Sitting up in a daze, I looked down to find myself still clad in nothing more than a pair of panties- that was all I slept in. This wouldn't have been an issue had I been in bed, where I belonged, rather than the middle of a small town full of what appeared to be some sort of... religious cult? Or perhaps something akin to a Renaissance Festival? Whatever it was, everyone was incredibly in character, from their clothing to their accents to the state of their hair and skin (horrendous).

Yes, everyone was incredibly in character... and staring at me with wide eyes. After a moment of silence (during which I attempted to make frightened eye contact with _someone_ and everyone else seemed determine to somehow watch me without allowing me to make said eye contact), one woman- apparently the bravest of the bunch- approached slowly, eventually kneeling down on my level next to me on the ground. "Hwa bist?"

Thinking I'd misheard her over the bustling of the animals in the town square (and it _was_ only animals making noise- all the humans seemed entirely distracted by my appearance), I leaned in. "I'm sorry?"

"Who are you?" she demanded, quite rudely if I may add. I'd just misunderstood her, it wasn't as though it were a big deal. "How did you get here?" Her voice was rough, and I felt as though someone were taking a cheese grater to my ears.

Suddenly, there was a large pop. I whipped my head around to see what had happened- still taking care to cover myself, still almost entirely exposed- and saw two men who were clearly something special: the attention of the town had been drawn away from me and towards them, and I had clearly been quite the novelty. Neither of the men spoke as they approached me, and when they reached my resting place on the ground, they shooed away the angry woman (who had since calmed down, it seemed- she gave the men a hearty wave and smile as she practically bounced away) and picked me up by my upper arms.

"Come on," one of them said roughly. "We need to have a talk."

"About what?" I whimpered. The last thing I needed was to be having 'talks' with strange men in little more than my undies in an entirely strange place. Neither of the men gave an answer, and I shuddered as they carried me in silence.

It was taking a moment to get... wherever we were going, and I took the chance to really examine my assailants. One- the one who had spoken first- was a ruddy-faced, hazel-eyed ginger with an incredible beard- although kept relatively short, it was quite thick, with no patches or spots of the wrong color, and it was kept remarkably clean, considering the state of the rest of him. This man, beyond a magnificent beard, had kindness in his eyes; I could see through his words and actions to know that much about him.

The other man was more aloof, more difficult to read. His hair, dark brown- almost black- was to his waist (in stellar contrast to the choppy, short hair of the ginger man), braided neatly all the way down. If the other man was proud of his beard, this man took pride in the hair on the top of his head (and down his back). Where there was kindness, understanding, and even warmth in the eyes of the other man, this one was cold and impersonal.

Finally, mercifully, we had reached wherever it was the men had been searching for- the journey was over. There didn't appear to be much of anything at all in the spot we stopped in, though, and despite the friendly nature under the surface of the ginger man, I found myself growing terrified again. I was in a strange place, still not fully clothed, with two men whom I had never met before and had no reason to trust and who had still yet to speak to me beyond ordering me to submit to their pulling me along.

They let go of my arms simultaneously. The dark-haired man pulled from his boot a stick- a wand! It was a wand!- and waved it without ceremony, still silent, until a small rock appeared in the air about a foot above us, hovering for a moment before falling towards the earth. The other caught it easily, grinning. "Do you think the girls will appreciate this? We've already got so many young ones-" I scoffed slightly without saying anything- I wasn't so young, I was _seventeen!_- "staying behind, you know, and-"

"We do not know she is one of us," the dark-haired man said harshly, glaring at me as though it were my fault the ginger was coming up with such apparently ludicrous ideas. "We'll allow them to examine her with us, as we _agreed_, before making any decisions." The way he nearly spat the word 'agreed' led me to believe that perhaps he hadn't been very agreeable to that plan. Regardless, I was glad for it- perhaps the women would realize how utterly uncomfortable I was: even if the temperature was moderate (and it was indeed), being nearly naked was not my favorite thing in the world.

"Perhaps before we examine her, we should put her in some clothing, Salazar," said the ginger man jovially, tossing the white rock from hand to hand while the other man tried, frowning, to grab it.

Salazar. What? No. My head began to spin, breathing became hard- I had been in shock before, nothing had made sense and that was fine- if things began to make sense, that meant there would seem to be some legitimacy, and if there seemed to be legitimacy to something this impossible, then I must have gone absolutely _mad_. Even if this _were_ some sort of fictional world- no, it felt real, it couldn't be- the time of them, the time of him would be so far away- but if it were fictional, it- no. But I had to ask. "Uhm," I began artfully, and both men's heads swung around to focus on me, as it was the first I'd spoken throughout the entire escapade. "Are you, by chance, Salazar Slytherin?"

Unfortunately, the ginger man gave a small smile. "Well, Salazar," he said, "it seems we've got an admirer- so you know of us?" the man asked with interest, fully laying on his charms now that it seemed I had an idea of who he was. And I did have a very good idea, even if I wasn't certain...

"Godric, now is not the time," Salazar hissed. "She could still be an enemy- she doesn't have any magical energy about her at all!" Well, of course not, I reasoned weakly to myself. I'm a Muggle- I wouldn't have any magical... energy...

I had suddenly found myself well over a thousand years into the past, surrounded by fictional characters who I could somehow understand (despite the fact that Old English should have been fairly unrecognizable, even with the small amounts of studying I'd done on a whim), and here I was reasoning with myself that of _course_ I wouldn't have any magical energy, I'm a _Muggle_. That would just be _silly._

It all became slightly too much to handle, and I promptly fainted.

–

When I awoke, I was back in my own bed, where I belonged- I could feel that much from the metal frame under the thin mattress beneath me (I did love sleeping on that futon). Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sat up only to find myself tangled with my phone cord- and my phone had come unplugged and stopped charging at all. _Splendid._ Within the hour it took me to get up, get ready, and get myself to school, I fully forgot whatever nonsense had happened in my dream- my nightmare?

That night, I arrived home later than I should have. It didn't matter, of course, since my parents were working late- they always did on Thursdays. The two of them being gone, of course, didn't stop the house from absolutely reeking. It was what they liked to call "the refreshing scent of cigarettes" and what I preferred to call "the smell of nicotine and sadness." Regardless of what one chose to call it, everything smelled horribly of it- the living room, their car, anything that had been on their vanity for an extended period of time- including, much to my chagrin, each and every cloth hair tie I could find.

It was due to this odor permeating my hair scrunchies that I gave up on putting it up in a large bun and decided to simply sleep in a braid. As I moved my arms, I felt slightly like a puppet, as though my arms were moving entirely of their own volition rather than in accordance to my will. I chalked it up to my exceptional state of exhaustion (I hadn't had _nearly_ enough coffee during the day) doing strange things to my senses and control of my limbs and decided to call it a night and head to bed.

After a quick dinner of mashed potatoes and cold milk, I did so. Unlike most nights, during which I would spend over an hour tossing and turning until finally it was easier to let myself go blank and fade into sleep rather than consciously think of anything in particular, that night my head hit the pillow and I was out like candlelight snuffed.

–

_52 Weeks Compulsory: Storyteller, Misunderstood, Journey, Candlelight, Heartbreak_

_52 Weeks Optional: Oil Painting, Nightmare, Cigarettes, Television_


End file.
